Mnemosyne
by Child of a Pineapple
Summary: FINISHED It would all be very nice, she thinks, except she can’t remember how she got here. OneShot.


_This has actually been posted over on LJ for a few weeks -- this is just the first chance I've had to come and post it over here. This is a case!fic, of sorts. It's kind of trippy, and a bit out-there. But it's supposed to be like that. The title, "Mnemosyne," is the name of the goddess of memory in Greek mythology. This is actually the second fic I've named after a Greek deity._

**DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: I do not own _Fringe_. This is rated for some swearing and a little blood.**

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**Mnemosyne**

She can't breathe.

The edges of the mask bite into her skin and she flails against the icy grip pinning her to the table. Her lungs clench and her limbs convulse, but still she fights the urge to draw in another breath.

Just one minute, she only has to wait one more minute, and then she's sure—

Her vision's fading, and she almost doesn't register the prick of the needle. The sedative runs swiftly through her veins, and she inhales on instinct as her muscles relax.

For a moment there's the scent of citrus, and then nothing.

-

--

--

It's raining.

She hears the drops dancing on the shingles and breathes in deep, the scent of storms and summer nights filling her lungs. There's a hint of citrus somewhere as well, but right here, right now, it doesn't seem important.

A cool breeze drifts in through the open window, and she's all the more aware of the warm body pressed up against her side. It would all be very nice, she thinks, except she can't remember how she got here.

For a moment she panics, struggling to untangle herself from the sheets twined about her body. But the form beside her stirs, pressing his lips to her ear and whispering.

"Shh, Olivia. Just sleep," John's voice tells her. She relaxes, and her eyes slip closed.

--

--

--

"You should eat."

John's voice comes from somewhere off to the right. She doesn't turn to face him. The light is different than it was a moment ago, or last night -- she isn't sure. All yellows and golds, it filters in through a gap in the curtains. She's seated at a cozy kitchen table, cheerful gingham placemats adorning the cherry maple finish. Her hands are folded in her lap. They feel numb.

"Eat," John's voice says again, but she still doesn't see him, just the lazy rotation of the ceiling fan as it tumbles along its path. A dog barks in the distance, and she realizes that it's stopped raining.

--

--

--

She can't remember her wedding.

There's a ring on her finger and a photo album filled to the brim with snapshots of the happy couple, but that's it. Try as she might, she can't dredge up any memories of what should have been the happiest day in her life.

She's flipped through half the pictures before she realizes that the faces she's looking for are nowhere in sight.

--

--

--

It has to be here somewhere – she knows it has to be. Ransacked shelves and raided drawers haven't yielded anything yet, but she keeps searching.

"What are you looking for?" John's voice wants to know.

But it's not a what, that much she's sure of. Her fingers are frantic, scrambling through the contents of an upturned basket. They have to find him, have to stop him, before—

"Just leave it," John's voice says firmly. "Just leave it alone."

--

--

--

This isn't right.

Someone's talking, but the words are tumbling away the second they leave their mouth, never quite making it to her ears. A television screen flashes in the corner of her eye, but the images collapse in on one another.

He should have been here by now.

"Who?" John's voice asks from the chair beside her.

She just shakes her head. She wants to go home.

--

--

--

This isn't what she meant.

The house is beautiful. It's got deep green shutters pressed against the neat lines of red brick, and a fireplace tucked away in the back corner. There's a little path and a garden, and hell, it's even got a picket fence.

She hates it.

"Quaint, isn't it?" John's voice sounds pleased. "Perfect place to raise a family, don't you think?"

--

--

--

She stares at the children on the floor before her, trying to focus on their antics and not the nagging feeling that this is not where she's supposed to be. The girl has her father's eyes, but in the boy Olivia sees only herself.

The girl looks up at her, triumphantly waving a scribbled picture. With chubby fingers she's scrawled out the image of their little family, all decked out in yellows and golds. She knows her heart ought to swell with pride, but somehow she only feels cold.

--

--

--

"Stop fighting, Olivia," John's voice tells her. "You're only making this harder."

She doesn't remember much, but she's pretty sure she was screaming. The girl had cried, and the boy's bottom lip had trembled as she raged, but she still can't bring herself to feel as bad as she knows she should.

The blanket's heavy on her shoulders, binding her arms tightly about her chest. She'd like to tear it away, and burn this house to the ground. She needs to go home.

"This is home." John's voice is insistent. "This is your life now. Don't you want this? Don't you want to be happy?"

She wants to feel _real_ again, but she can't find the words to say so.

--

--

--

Everything's wrong.

It was only supposed to be a minute – just one moment, and instead she thinks she might have spent a thousand lifetimes in this place, or maybe no time at all. She just can't be sure anymore. All she wants to do now is sleep.

"That's right," John's voice whispers, all around her and nowhere at all. "Just sleep."

--

--

--

It's raining.

She hears the drops dancing on the shingles and breathes in deep, the scent of storms and summer nights filling her lungs. There's a hint of citrus somewhere as well, and finally everything makes sense.

"Go back to sleep, Olivia." John's voice is steely, and while part of her wants to be afraid, the rest knows why she isn't.

There's a rumble in the distance, and she's almost certain someone's calling her name.

And she remembers.

"You're not here," she murmurs, finally turning to face him.

Blackness swallows her whole, and she wakes.

--

--

--

She can breathe again.

That first gasp is simultaneously blissful and terrifying. She almost thinks her lungs are shredding from the inside out as the mask is torn away from her lips. The air's biting at her skin, and for a second she's afraid it's peeling off in layers. There's a voice shouting at her – it's urgent, and definitely not John's.

---------------

She can't remember ever seeing Peter so pale, or feeling as cold as she does now. But his face is ashen as he rips away the restraints at her wrists, and she shivers from a chill that seeps into her very bones. She lurches away from the cot as soon as she's free, which is a mistake. But Peter catches her arm, and she lets herself lean into him as he gently lowers her to the floor, crouching beside her.

"This was a terrible idea," he tells her, and by the tremor in his voice she knows he hasn't quite gotten his breath back, either. Her own rhythm is erratic at best, which is probably why Peter reaches out to measure her pulse. But if his fingers linger a little longer than necessary, the sudden onslaught of memories is enough to distract her.

In retrospect, baiting a psychopath with a penchant for drugging young women and harvesting their organs probably wasn't the brightest of ideas. But with fourteen girls already dead and no trail of evidence to follow, they hadn't been left with many other options.

But it's clear now that everything's finally sorted. Two agents have the killer pinned to the ground, and the veritable Cerberus of a guard dog is lying dead across the room. But judging by the vicious gashes running rampant down Peter's forearm and still bleeding freely, the beast had gone down fighting – Olivia's fingers tremble as she reaches out to touch the wound.

"It's fine," Peter assures her. His good hand hesitantly catches her chin and turns her face towards his own. "Olivia. I need you to talk to me. Are you alright?"

"How long was I out?" she whispers, finally finding her voice. She breathes in shallowly, her mind hazy from the drugs. A tinge of citrus still clings to her senses. The killer had used it mask the pungent scent of the anesthesia as his victims hovered in a semi-conscious, dream-like state while he tore them apart from the inside out.

"Not long," he answers, shaking his head. "Five, six minutes."

She nods mutely. Even though they're receding quickly, the dreams are still more tangible than she'd like. For the first time this night, all she wants is to forget.

Peter's staring at her, concern obvious in his eyes. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No." She shakes her head until the room starts to spin. "No, just take me home."

She makes it to the car before she drifts off to sleep, and this time, she doesn't dream.

**END**

**12:23 PM, 9/22/08**

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_NOTE: Inspiration from this fic comes from a few different places. Mainly the Supernatural episodes "What is And What Should Never Be," as well as the Doctor Who two-parter, "Silence in the Library" and "Forests of the Dead." I know the whole alternate dream universe idea has been done other times, too, but those were the two I had in mind._

_Thanks for reading, and please review!_

**_Child of a Pineapple_**


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